


Shoot to Kill

by Celirian



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Forced Amnesia, Gen, Mind Manipulation, identity conflict
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:56:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9494507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celirian/pseuds/Celirian
Summary: The High Council has done a lot of terrible things over the course of the war. What's one more mind to mess with? Deadlock was a dangerous Decepticon and there no telling what could happen if he remembered all the horrible things he did now that he's an Autobot. Only there's one small catch: Everyone knows. Everyone but Drift.





	1. Right

**Author's Note:**

> Saw a post on Tumblr about the high council erasing Drift's mind of the time he was a Decepticon. Got inspired. Wrote a short. Couldn't leave it alone. Oops?

**[Here's the prompt post on Tumblr](http://viisivarvaslaiskiainen.tumblr.com/post/154340204773/ruenesca-criminarchy-imagine-drift-not) ** if anyone wants to check it out. Otherwise enjoy =)

* * *

 

Most of the time Drift doesn’t remember what he dreamed about. He knows he’s had one, because when your spark is thumping a hundred times a nano-click in your chest and your frame is overheating even when your recharge slab is icy cold, there aren’t many other explanations. It clearly was never a  _ good _ dream when he woke up like that. Good dreams wouldn’t have you screaming into the dark.

Other times? 

He still didn’t remember. Not entirely. He wouldn’t wake up screaming, not calm either and there is a lingering feeling that he can’t shake. A tickle in the back of his mind of something familiar and not that familiar that makes you feel safe and okay. A familiar that makes you feel out of place and anxious to remember something when you’re not sure there is actually anything to remember in the first place. 

It’s like a low growl that floats around in his chest like a fish swimming through purple tinted water. 

At first he thought it was stress from being reassigned. He had gone from being a part of a tiny not-much-of-anything unit to walking down the same halls as basically every important Autobot to exist. 

A little stressful? Yes. Granted he never thought he was the kind to stress out. After all, his whole shtick was being the “zen” one or whatever that Earth term was. It’s his mantle. His… him. It is him. Right? 

Right. 

There’s the dreams, though. The dreams that he can never remember that give him a feeling he can’t really describe or figure out. Its the same feeling he gets when he walks past someone in the hall or catches their gaze from across a room. Familiarity that can’t possibly be a thing because he’d never been with these bots before. He’d never even met the majority of them. 

It started with the medic. He’d heard a lot about Ratchet. He was good; he was actually the best. Sure his bedside manner wasn’t exactly what you’d expect, but somehow no one seemed to care. He’d reported to the medical bay or his check-in. New body on board, new charts to file. It was a typical medical exam and Drift began to wonder if the reports of Ratchet’s bedside manner were vastly under exaggerated. He was down right cold. He made no eye contact and barely spoke except the occasional ‘turn this way’ or ‘change into your alt form and back’. His EM field was so drawn Drift wondered if it was suffocating him.

It was uncomfortable at the very least, but then,  _ it happened _ . He locked optics with Ratchet for the briefest moment and it hit him. Some bubble that was in his mind popped and suddenly he knew who he was looking at.

Which was absurd because he had never met Ratchet before. Right? 

Right. 

Then Ratchet looked away and the bubble was back, but it was smaller and the next morning was the first time Drift woke up silent, but wondering. 

It happened again with Ratchet a couple days later. The medic was nose deep in a data pad and they knocked shoulders in the hall. They locked optics and Ratchet’s EM went from one hundred percent guilt to absolutely nothing before Drift even got his feet back under him.

“Sorry, kid.” 

_ Kid? _

He should have been mad that someone called him kid, but he wasn’t. It was familiar, but it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be because no one had ever called him  _ kid _ before. Right?

Right.

Then it happened again. And again and again. Perceptor, Kup, Hot Rod, Blurr, and this weird moment when he was reading up on old Wreckers files and came across Turmoil’s name. The bubble would pop and his spark would flood and then the moment would pass and he’d be left venting like he was out of breath even though he didn’t breath and also wondering if he was going a little bit crazy.

Turmoil was one of Megatron’s worst. He was up there with Tarn in the worst depart. He was definitely not someone Drift would have ever encountered in his little not-much-of-anything unit. Right?

Right. 

Just stress, it has to be. A need to be familiar in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people doing unfamiliar things against other unfamiliar people. Right?

Right.


	2. Chapter 2

_ No, this is not right at all… _

There was a gun in his hand. There was a gun in his hand and it was pointed at Hot Rod’s chest. Dead center. Right between the eyes of his Autobot emblem.  _ Right where he always loved to aim _ \--

“No!” 

A trembling hand threw the gun to the ground with a loud clang and Drift stumbled back so fast he couldn’t keep his feet under him. He fell with a thump, ignoring the shock that traveled up his spine and how the impact seemed to rattle around in his head giving him an instant headache. He didn’t notice his hands grab at his chest, scratching his paint as he clawed for his own spark which is threatening to burst out from inside of him.

Drift  _ hated _ guns. Wing never used a gun and Wing certainly never trained him to use one. He learned to fight with his swords. He learned to fight with honor and respect. If you were going to take another’s life you did it up close. You made sure the blood was on your hands and that you would carry that burden with you. It wasn’t from afar. It wasn’t without knowing the color of the optics of the bot you were about to eliminate. 

Death wasn’t something to take lightly. Death wasn’t something to enjoy. Drift hated it. 

_ But he really wanted to pull that trigger. _

“No!” 

_ Shoot to kill. There’s no point in having a gun if you’re aiming to miss. You shoot. You kill.  _

“No no no no!”

“Drift?”

Drift blinked and his optics drifted from his sword on the ground to Hot Rod kneeling down next to him looking a little more than concerned. Why was he on the floor? Why did his head hurt? When did he drop his sword? Why did Hot Rod have a giant scratch across his chest?

“You okay?” Hot Rod looks like he isn’t sure if he should run to get someone or pat Drift on the shoulder from a distance to comfort him. “You just sort of fell over. I can go get Ratchet or Perceptor-”

Drift reached up quickly and caught Hot Rod’s wrist as he turned. “No! No, it’s... I’m fine. I just got distracted by something.” 

Right? 

Something must have caught his eye just enough for him to trip up; to distract him enough to slip. Even if it wasn’t like him to get distracted  _ ever _ . It happens to everyone. He can’t even remember what it was at this point. It was like those nightmares he had. Some fleeting feeling of familiarity and panic and anger and fear lingered in his chest, but he was fine. He was safe. He was where he belonged. Right?

Right.

Hot Rod frowned but held a hand out to Drift and hauled him up to his feet. Drift eyed the scratch on Hot Rod’s chest and reached out to trace it with his fingers. The metal is still warm and his fingers come back with a wet taint of blue.

“Did I do this? Just now?” Drift drew his arm in close to himself and grabbed his wrist with his other hand to try and stop a tremble that he couldn’t seem to control. If he just hurt Hot Rod how come he can’t remember? How could he let himself lose control like that? That just wasn’t something that happened  _ ever _ . 

Hot Rod looked down flinching at Drift’s touch, but instead of stepping away he grinned sheepishly with a small shrug. “Don’t worry about it. Totally my fault. I tried to catch you when you fell and walked right into the end of your sword. You’d think I’d have learned by now that the pointy end is the dangerous end.” 

Shaking his head Drift backed away. That made no sense. Hot Rod might be impulsive, but he wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t _walk_ _into a sword._

But Drift can’t remember.  _ He doesn’t remember. _

Why can’t he remember?

Abandoned sword forgotten Drift bolted. He heard Hot Rod shout his name and follow for a few paces, but he quickly lost him in the hall. This was one of his nightmares. It had to be. He would wake up any second now and he’d forget this ever happened. Whatever happened in the first place. He’d be in his room and he’d panic until he realized that and then he’d get up, shake it off, meditate, and get going with the day. This is not how the day was supposed to go. 

Drift ignored the bots he passed in the halls. The strange looks he got and the various shouting that followed after him around each corner. He just had to make it back to his room. If he made it back there maybe he’d wake up. Maybe he’d forget why his fingers were twitching. Why he felt like he needed to keep himself away from everyone. 

He’d hurt someone else. He could feel it. He  _ wanted to _ .

“NO!”

Drift slammed the lock button to his room, slipped inside, and froze as he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror on his wall. 

Red? Why were his optics red?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More? Why yes. I think so. 
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and comments everyone!


End file.
